


Blood

by viscrael



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Insomnia, M/M, Night Terrors, Recovery, Sadstuck, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Short, Suicide Attempt, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:05:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have the nightmares stopped?</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>Has the cutting stopped at all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: 
> 
> just to b clear, im not cis. i know some ppl get rlly irritated when cis ppl try to write bout trans characters and end up just makin it ALL ABOUT how theyre trans and the whole "whoa is me, i was born in the wrong body!!!" sch-peel...
> 
> the few times i try to address it in this, it's written solely based off my experience with my body and feelings regarding it. i in no way speak for the entire lgbtqa community on how it feels to be trans or genderqueer. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ive had sad dave stuff stuck in my head for like 3 days have this poopily written thing its like 1 am on a school night oh dear jesus
> 
> also mAJOR TRIGGER WARNING!!! TAGS!!!!! ALWAYS READY TAGS!!!!!!!!!!!!

It started when you were eleven.

Nicks at the shoulder, bruises to the calf. Plain things, simple, barely any pain and easy to cover up. Lines that didn’t break skin, only irritated it—bruises that barely stayed and skin that only turned red.

It got worse as you grew older. Cuts that drew blood, on your soft stomach and childbearing hips. Bruises on your knees, big and blue and hurting. Long sleeves and long pants and an expression of perfect indifference. The weird, sick fascination with seeing your own blood.

Strifes with your brother provided the sight of your blood too often (“You’re losing your edge. You gotta keep up.”) but it never gave you the same feeling as when you were alone, when it was of your own volition. The feeling of power and release and _emotion_ , oh God, all the fucking _emotion_ it brought. Sometimes, after a particularly rough time, you cried, cried, and you didn’t know the reason for your crying in the first place. All you knew was blood, blood, blood, red and yours and your fault.

And still, even worse, worst of all, when the signs of your “womanhood” started showing up, more prominent each time. Bras and “girl parts” and period pains and dresses and skirts and school uniforms and she she she she _she_. You are not a she. You have never been a she. You _will_ never be a she.

And that’s all fine and dandy, your bro couldn’t give less of a shit as long as you’re happy. But that’s the problem— _you aren’t happy_. You don’t even know how to be, you’ve tried, it doesn’t work, how are you supposed to be a boy when everyone knows you as fucking “ _Elizabeth_?” How are you supposed to be a boy when teachers use feminine pronouns and your friends still call you “Lizzy” and the only time you feel safe is when you’re _hating your body and slicing up your skin and not sleeping for three days straight_? Even the hatred and the pain and the scars and the bags under your eyes are better than venturing into the unknown; you’ve gone so long being the way you are, you think you’ve forgotten how to be normal again.

12, 13, 14.

Come 15, you are Dave Strider and you are starting a new school away from “ _she_.” It’s great, you love it, you’re happy, you’re fine, but then…are you? Even when you’re finally satisfied, finally comfortable, even when you’re respected as the boy you are, are you happy?

 

Have the nightmares stopped?

…

Has the cutting stopped at all?

 

Skip forward another year. You meet a boy with dark hair and glasses that makes you smile. You meet a girl with red hair and a walking cane that makes you laugh. You meet a boy with a loud voice and unruly hair that makes you want to get better.

Skip forward a few months. You’re brother has known about it since it started, he’s not stupid; you’ve never talked to him about it, but you know he knows and he knows you know he knows. There are no secrets in your house, no matter how badly you wish there were. He starts taking you to therapy halfway through your sophomore year of high school.

Another year. You’re dating the boy with unruly hair. You’re thinking about college. Your skin is scarred and ruined, puffy and red and scabbing constantly. You don’t go more than a few days without new cuts now. You’re nervous—nervous for what? You don’t know. Life, maybe? Life after high school. Life with your sadness and night terrors and blades. Life doesn’t sound so appealing anymore.

You try to kill yourself August of your senior year. Your boyfriend cries and you probably cry too and you black out at one point and you’re taken to the hospital, where they then take you to a psychiatric hospital, one that’s supposed to help. You’re 17—turning 18 in December, but they still have to take you to the teens unit, even though you wish they wouldn’t.

You meet a small girl, 16, with long, blonde hair and a dead look in her eyes. She says she talks to ghosts and you almost believe her on more than one occasion.

You meet a boy, 17 like you, with a mess of dark, dark hair on top of just as dark skin who seems chill enough, but you heard he’s there for drug abuse and homicidal tendencies. He always talks about drugs and he uses the word “motherfucker” too much for the staffs liking.

You meet a small girl, 15, who loves cats and has too many scars on her arm. She sees your own and almost starts crying, and she gives you a hug when none of the staff is there to catch you. (You’ll keep in contact with her once you get out.)

The staff asks you a lot of questions, and you hear, “Dave, why did you try to kill yourself?” more times than you’d like to even think about, and most of it sounds condescending, like you’re a child unable to think on their level. You shrug most of the time, but one of the doctors manages to squeeze a partial answer out of you—“I’m not good at being normal.”

They prescribe you another type of medicine and tell you to get some rest.

When you get out, your boyfriend smothers you in kisses and takes you out on several dates and you tell him all about it, and he winces when you tell him about the cat girl; he used to be friends with her, they were neighbors for a long time, and you don’t push the subject because he has a tendency to blame his loved ones’ misfortunes on himself and that’s the last thing you want for him.

One night, your brother asks you why you attempted. You don’t talk about what happened much, so you’re surprised beyond belief for a moment. And then you just start fucking _bawling_ , God, you’ll never live that down, but he let’s you hug him and mutter some half-assed response into his shirt and ruffles your hair the way he did when you were younger.

 

Another year. You’re in college, still unsure of what the hell you’re doing with your life, but things are getting better, better probably, and your skin is calming down.

The cat girl, 16 now, hangs out with you on weekends, and sometimes she’ll do duets with you—you’ll rap and she’ll sing, both of you improvising, and she seems to love it. You tell her about how you’re transgender, and she tells you about how she’s abused at home, and your heart hurts and sometimes you hug it out, others you end up jamming more. Sometimes your boyfriend comes and hangs out with the two of you, but they get uncomfortable and he ends up absconding pretty soon after, much to your dismay.

You and your boyfriend get an apartment together halfway through your freshman year of college. You’ve been clean for almost six months now and you’re on top of the world, and he kisses you when you tell him about it and says he’s proud of you.

Bro stops by just to bug you every now and then, but mostly you like it. The girl with the red hair from high school shows up your sophomore year at college and gets in touch with you again. Your boyfriend becomes your fiancé and you’ve been clean for a year and a half.

When you finally get married, it’s after you’ve finished college, and you’re four years clean. Four years without a blade—four years without blood or scars or hiding beneath long sleeves in summer. Four years and you’re on top of the world.

Have the nightmares stopped?

Has the cutting stopped?

 

 

Finally, finally, finally. _Yes_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> happy, v cheesy endings uwu


End file.
